


five ways to leave

by f_vikus



Category: House M.D
Genre: Break Up, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_vikus/pseuds/f_vikus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five reasons Chase leaves House.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	five ways to leave

**one**   
  


July, hotter than Australia.  Hotter than Chase remembers Australia to be, but his memory’s faulty; he hasn’t been back since…

He stops thinking because there’s nothing left for him there.  _Daddy Chase is dead_ , he mouths bitterly.  There was a funeral for the great Rowan Chase, and now he’s buried next to the wife like a good husband he should’ve been. 

The air-conditioning is on at full blast, and Chase silently thanks Cuddy.  They’ve had mundane cases, things he could diagnose unconscious, like heat stroke and sunburn.  Nothing worth their while, so Chase walks faster down the halls with a stack of files, hoping to avoid more clinic duty that wasn’t his.  He’s alone today, pulling double duty (triple, with House’s workload too).  Cameron had called in sick.  Chase scoffs at this thought.  Foreman was missing too, and Chase suspects he’s in the closet somewhere with Wendy.  Or, more accurately, was coerced into the closet by Wendy.

He skirts past Cuddy’s office, smiles to the nurses at the station, and walks a little faster.  House’s office is around the corner, and Chase strides confidently up to the door, folders in hand.  Wants to tell House that he’s lost their bet; the last patient wasn’t stricken with heat stroke at all.  The patient was a faker, and wanted to get out of work, just like you House.  Chase stops abruptly. 

Cameron’s there.  Chase feels like running in and saying, “Slacker!” but doesn’t.  She’s frantic, waving her arms around and shouting, but Chase doesn’t hear her.  He only sees House, and how his face grows paler.  House’s eyes are glittering, or was that the reflection off the glass door?  House is shaking his head, yes, no, yes –  

And Cameron kisses him.  She grips him desperately, and she kisses him like a woman dying of thirst.  House’s arms come up around her, and – _and –_ House kisses back. 

House kisses back. 

All Chase’s thoughts die away, and he’s suddenly very aware of how loud the air-conditioning is.  There’s a catch in his throat and the blood’s rushing to his head.  Chase is confused. 

House kisses back.

The files don’t quite make it to House.   

Neither does Chase.

  
  


**two**   
  


They weren’t drunk.  Chase wishes they were, because it would’ve made things easy. _Easier,_ he corrects himself.  It’s dark in House’s office, and Chase thinks he’s knocked over the coat stand and several books already, but then House hits the desk, and Chase stumbles into him with an ungraceful, “Oof.”  

And somehow he’s made quick work of his shirt, and his tie is somewhere in the room.  In the back of his mind, Chase makes a reminder to look for it, so that Cameron wouldn’t suspect –

His mind goes blank when House slips a knee between his legs.  “Stop thinking,” he demands hoarsely. 

Chase moans. 

House looks startled, then smug, and he pushes his knee harder.  And Chase’s hands are slipping under House’s shirt, and then the shirt is gone, gone, like Chase’s willpower.   Year three, but in actuality, it’s been five years, two since House hired him, then two more years dancing around each other, and then.

And then.

House brushes his fingers lightly across Chase’s cheek, and there’s tenderness there when he bends down to kiss Chase.  “Still thinking?” he murmurs, hands wandering lower.

Chase smiles and leans in for another kiss.  “Should I be?”  House scoffs, and reaches for Chase’s hair, and this is bliss.  Because for the first time in years, Chase feels alive, has someone to be alive for.  He presses up against House and House _moves_ against him, hands wandering all over him.  And Chase has never felt so complete, even though he’s up against House’s bookshelf at _work_ , none the less. 

“I love,” he gasps, almost to quiet to be heard.  “I love you.”

The hands slow down, and then stop all together. 

And House is looking at him now, a glint in his eyes. 

“I,” Chase tries again, but House takes a step back, shaking his head.  He begins reorganizing his clothes.

“House,” Chase says, quietly.  He leans against the bookcase.   

House turns around and walks closer to Chase.  Close enough to kiss him, and Chase closes his eyes.

“This,” and House is completely still now, no trace of sarcasm or _anything_ in his voice at all, “this.”  House leans in, next to his ear.  “This,” his breath hot on his neck, “never happened.”

Chase goes cold.

House walks out.

**three**   
  


Or they were together.  And it ends worse.

Sunday, or was it Saturday afternoon?  And Chase finally leaves the hospital.  Takes his time getting home, because he has a home now, and someone waiting for him there.  House has the day off, so Chase stops at the grocery store for food and hopes House feels like cooking.  There is no traffic, and it is clear outside, and Chase has never really noticed how beautiful the city really is.  House’s voice pops into his head, mocking him for his sentimentality. 

Strangely, TS Eliot comes to Chase’s mind before he opens the door to House’s (and his, finally his) apartment. 

_This is the way the world ends._

It’s quiet, no TV, no Chopin (or Chopsticks for that matter), and the familiar sound of a cane shuffling around the flat is absent.

_This is the way the world ends._

“House?” Chase calls out.  There’s apprehension in his stomach, and he shakes it off, ignores the fact that the lights are not dimmed, but out all together.  He drops his bag off on the floor, kicks off his shoes.  He carelessly slides the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter, wondering if House is in the shower, and grins at the thought. 

His jacket is half-off and trailing on the ground as he blindly makes his way to their bedroom.  He turns the doorknob, opens the door. 

_Not with a bang._

He was not prepared.  Not prepared at all. 

There is light streaming in from the open blinds.  Everything is illuminated, and in the whiteness of their room, in their bed, is House.  He’s sitting up, was staring at the ceiling until Chase came in, and when Chase’s eyes adjusted to the light, he notices.

Wilson.  Wilson stretched out next to House, and Chase makes out tanned skin and the outline of entwined legs underneath the sheets.  And House is sitting there, sheets puddled around his bare torso, looking smugly at Chase.  Chase meets those blue eyes, and with a shock, he _understands._   

_This is how the world ends._

House knows what he’s done.  If this were guilt or a pity fuck, he would’ve shut the blinds, turned the music up to block the sounds, to stop the sight.

_It’s what he does with you,_ a voice jeers in his head, and Chase closes his eyes.  There is no hurt at all, he marvels. 

He could compete with a woman, because he’s just as pretty, can pull off allure pretty damn well.  He could compete with Cameron, because he knows House pities her, or Cuddy, because it’s business, or even Stacy, because it’s just revenge to House.

But Wilson.  He could never ever compete with Wilson.  Wilson, the ever faithful, the best friend who’s been there even longer than Stacy.  Wilson who understands House, and shares his secrets and his pain and most of his life.  It’s Wilson he cannot compete with.   

It’s bright and it’s quiet, and he can hear his heart beating.  He’s pretty sure House hears it to, with the way he’s curiously staring at him. 

“You win.” Chase is frozen, can only comprehend House’s smirking face.  He looks at Wilson again, curled up against House in _his_ side of the bed, and something inside him cracks.  “You win.”

And the world isn’t so bright anymore, and this isn’t his home anymore and Chase nods slowly, thoughtfully.  He doesn’t hurt like he thought he would (and eight drinks later he’ll still be looking for the hurt).

But when he turns to leave, he fails to see the smirk slide off House’s face. 

 

**four**   
  


The funeral was short, and the crowd was sparse.  Not surprisingly, considering how many people House had insulted over the years.  Cuddy speaks, choking at the appropriate intervals.  She’s wearing a tight black skirt, and a tight black jacket that scoops down in the front.  Chase thinks he hears House’s voice cracking a crude joke about her cleavage, and he smiles. 

The sky is blue.  Not blue like the ocean or like House’s eyes, but just blue.  Chase can’t help but be reminded of House.  He remembers looking at House’s will, looking at his name on the paper and feeling colder than when he looked at his father’s will.  Is reminded him that now _their_ apartment is now _his_ apartment, and how House’s cane is tucked into the back of the closet, next to Chase’s shoes.  How the piano will sit there, untouched and gathering dust.      

Vogler shifts his weight, and looks every part respectful, but Chase knows he’s just waiting until he can get his claws into Cuddy.  House isn’t there to protect them anymore.

Chase thinks he spots Tritter around, _probably wants to make sure he’s really dead,_ and pulls his collar higher.  

House’s father is staring at the ground, one hand in his wife’s lap.  Their fingers are entwined; he’s running his thumb across her ring.  They’re not crying; they must have known, and Chase feels slightly betrayed.  

Stacy shows up by herself, late, and Chase watches as Wilson puts up a guarded, but polite, expression.  He greets her cordially, leads her to the front, like she’s still part of House’s life, but House is dead, and Chase feels the hysteria welling up at the back of his throat.  He doesn’t cry, hasn’t cried since he was fifteen, sixteen.  He settles for breathing shakily, and tucks his trembling hands into his pockets.  

Cameron is inconsolable, propped up against a stoic Foreman.  She cries like she’s dying, and her sobs cut across the silence like breaking glass.  To him they sound like chants, _he never loved me, he never loved me, he never…_ and people nod at her sympathetically, _oh, she must be the one._

That’s all they were, the ones who loved House.  Cuddy in her difficult way, and Stacy from her guilt, loving House the only way they knew how.  Wilson and his blackmailings, and Cameron in her childish puppy love. 

And Chase.  Chase, who can’t feel his heart or anything else, and is staring at box that House is lying in. 

There are doctors, and several patients that had been on their way out when House saved them.  The only ones who could stand the way House dealt with them, and Chase can see the gratefulness in their eyes, and they whisper condolences, _“I’m so sorry for your loss”_ to Cuddy, to Cameron, the parents and Wilson. 

But not to Chase

He’s been waiting to hear those words, for someone to say them to him, and then he realizes, House told no one about them.  He was House’s dirty little secret, one he took with him to his grave. 

He’s never felt so alone. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he whispers to himself, and something wet slips down his cheek.

 

**five  
  
**

It’s tricky of him, he knows, and he feels a little bad for that.

His two weeks notice letter is sitting in House’s mailbox, hand-addressed.  If it was typed, Cameron would’ve opened it, would’ve alerted House to his disappearing act.  But the address was handwritten, screamed _Personal_ and Cameron sets it aside, puts it in House’s inbox, at which House will not look at.  Possibly ever.

House isn’t good at personal.

He called Cameron and Foreman last night, took them out to dinner.  He said his goodbyes, and strangely, as he watched Cameron’s eyes glitter and Foreman clear his throat, he realized he’ll miss them.  Badly, because after spending two years with them, they’re all he had.

And he kissed Cameron’s cheek and shook Foreman's  hand, and that was it.  

Chase is already at the terminal, too bad for House.  Boarding is in 20 minutes, and, he smiles ruefully, first class goes first.  He bends over to pick up his carry-on.

“Running away again, Robbie?”  A cane clicks into view, followed by a limp and a very cross-looking House.  

“What are you doing here?”  Chase wills his heart to slow down, tries to look nonchalant.

“I should be asking you the same.”  House leans on his cane and pulls out a crumpled letter. 

_Oh._

“Do you want to tell me why I’m losing a fellow?”  He shakes the letter in front of Chase.  Chase looks at the floor.  “There’s nothing for you in Oz.”  House is irate, but he isn’t shouting, yet.  “You can’t run away from everything.”

“There’s nothing for me here!”  Chase snaps back.  He tries not to gloat at the shocked look on House’s face.  _Yes, I grew a backbone._

House stands there, looking at him with narrowed eyes. 

“What do you want, House?”  Chase is tired.  He can’t do this dance forever, and other than outright telling House, there really was no other option left. 

_Tell me you want me._

There was a pause. 

The airport never felt so silent. 

And when House didn’t answer, Chase nods, ignoring the tightening feeling around his heart.  _He’s never going to say it._

“Goodbye, House.”  He looks into House’s eyes, _I’m not coming back,_ hoping that House would say something, anything. 

_Tell me to stay._

“Better not miss your flight.”  And if House’s voice was oddly gruff, Chase didn’t think anything of it. 

He picked up his bag, and walked through the gate.  He didn't look back.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic! Season 1 only. Chase needs to be seriously coddled the next time I write. I seriously think the whole House series was really a love story between Wilson and House, with Wilson patiently waiting, but alas, this was a fun pairing.


End file.
